Sobriety
by JenF
Summary: Athos: Don't worry. He's made this shot a hundred times. D'Artagnan: He's drunk. Athos: He's never made it sober. The first time (to be followed by the second and third times).
1. Chapter 1

**Title** : Sobriety  
 **Author** : JenF  
 **Chapters** : 1 of 3  
 **Disclaimer** : I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their property, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

 **Athos** : Don't worry. He's made this shot a hundred times.

 **D'Artagnan** : He's drunk.

 **Athos** : He's never made it sober.

* * *

It's been a long week. Porthos thought he knew tiredness but this week, his first week as a true musketeer, has brought home to him how little he really knows about fatigue and stamina. Yes, the infantry had been hard, had turned him from the vagabond lifestyle of the Court into the man he is today, into a fighter with honour and loyalty bound together within his very bones, but it had not prepared him for the demands of the musketeers.

He sits on the bench in the yard of the garrison and surveys the men around him. He's made few friends, if any. He thinks it might be to do with his upbringing but it's more likely to be a consequence of the colour of his skin. He hasn't missed the way the other musketeers look at him when they think he's otherwise occupied. He knows they don't really trust him and part of him doesn't really blame them. It's a sign of the times and, if he's really honest with himself, he wouldn't really trust himself either if he were them.

But there's a camaraderie here that feels like home. As he watches the young men sparring with each other, he can't help the satisfied nod and creeping smile.

"You're a long way from home, my friend," a voice rumbles from behind him.

His training is too good to allow the surprise to show through. He simply nods and turns his head to inspect the speaker.

"I've been further," he tells his companion – a seasoned musketeer by the looks of him.

The man nods sagely and waves his hat at the empty space beside him.

"May I?"

Porthos shrugs. It makes no difference to him where the man settles himself. He turns his attention back to the activity in the courtyard. Silence falls between him and his new companion and Porthos thinks no more of it.

Gradually the various training sessions come to an end and the musketeers fade away with a nod to Porthos and a few words to his companion which are acknowledged with grace and humour. The daylight begins to wane and the late summer warmth dwindles.

Porthos has almost forgotten the presence at his side when the man stands abruptly and holds out a hand to him. The large man eyes it with curiosity before looking up. The man before him has a smile on his face which seems to replace the disappearing daylight.

"You spar, I believe?" the man asks, although it sounds as though he already knows the answer.

Porthos leans back and tilts his head to one side, examining his potential opponent. He knows he could easily best this man but something tells him it's not really a fight he's after.

"It's a little late in the day," he replies.

His companion nods in agreement.

"You're right." He looks around and seems surprised that the once bustling courtyard is now virtually deserted. He turns back to Porthos with a renewed smile. "A drink then? I know the perfect place."

Porthos considers the proposal. He has been here a while, he supposes, and while the summer heat is no stranger to him, he could happily spend a few hours in a darkened tavern with whatever entertainment that might bring.

TTMTTMTTM

The tavern is dingy and hot but the beer is free flowing and the company pleasant. Porthos finds himself relaxing. The two men have found a table in the corner of the room where they can see everything without being seen unless they want to. Porthos silently admires his companion's positioning although part of him wonders whether he wishes to be hidden.

As the evening wears on and the drink flows freely, the conversation turns to their respective skills. Porthos has wasted no time in letting it be known that, although he favours hand-to-hand fighting, he is accomplished in many of the skills regarded as vital to a fulfilling career in the musketeers.

The drink is having an effect on his judgment though and to an outsider it may have sounded like boasting. At least, that's how his companion seems to have taken it.

"So you truly believe you are the best swordsman in the regiment?" his acquaintance laughs. "You think you could be best my own skills with a musket, a pistol?"

"Without doubt," Porthos asserts, although his words are slightly slurred now. He doesn't register it himself but there's a crafty look in his drinking buddy's eyes.

"Prove it," the man demands, that wicked smile back on his face.

Porthos laughs, a full hearted belly laugh.

"With pleasure," he replies. "Where shall I shoot you?"

"Oh no, my friend. We won't shoot each other. It would be totally illegal to duel and, to be honest, such a waste of good lives."

"Then what do you propose?" Porthos demands, putting his tankard on the table just that little bit too forcefully, splashing beer over the edge.

"Let's see what we can find outside."

The man leads Porthos to the alley at the back of the tavern and Porthos wonders if this has all been some elaborate set up to rid the musketeers of his presence. But his companion doesn't seem dangerous at the moment, scrabbling about amongst the debris left outside the tavern.

"Aha," he exclaims, turning back to Porthos with a large, round fruit in his hand. "This will do for target practice."

Porthos is full of the confidence held only by the inebriated. He grins and, in one smooth movement, draws his pistol.

It seems his companion's judgement is just as impaired as Porthos'. Instead of placing the fruit on the ground, he holds in one hand, arm outstretched.

"If you shoot my arm off," he comments, "I will be very upset."

"Don't worry," Porthos reassures him. "You could put it on your head and be just as safe."

"Maybe next time," comes the rejoinder as Porthos pulls back the trigger.

The resulting kickback knocks Porthos off balance, a clear indication of the level of alcohol in his system and the smoke blurs his already iffy vision. For a split second he wonders if he's misjudged this terribly and he wishes for the first time that he knew the name of his companion, if only so he can make amends to the man's family.

But then delighted laughter catches up with him.

"My God, you did it! I didn't think you could possibly do it but you have!"

Porthos blinks and the man's laughter seems contagious. The smoke clears enough for Porthos to see melon splattered over the cobbles and the man doubled over with mirth.

The evening doesn't last long after that. Or at least, Porthos doesn't think it does. He doesn't really remember much.

TTMTTMTTM

Porthos wakes in his room and blinks repeatedly. Last night's activity comes back to him slowly and he feels a glow of satisfaction. He doesn't know who he drank with last night – they never got as far as names – but he has a feeling they'll meet again, soon. And next time, he thinks, he'll go for the head shot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title** : Sobriety  
 **Author** : JenF  
 **Chapters** : 2 of 3  
 **Disclaimer** : I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

 **Athos:** Don't worry. He's made this shot a hundred times.

 **D'Artagnan** : He's drunk.

 **Athos** : He's never made it sober.

* * *

It's been a long couple of months. Porthos has been on several missions and he's finally getting to know the other musketeers. The Captain seems to favour him for some reason and he's feeling more settled and sometimes even accepted by others. He no longer eats alone and he needs more than one hand to count his drinking companions.

He sometimes sees Aramis in the courtyard and they pass pleasantries. Porthos thinks there's the beginning of a friendship skirting around the edges of their exchanges but every time it knocks on the door, one or other of them is summoned away.

Until this morning.

Porthos wakes early most days – it's a remnant of his days in the Court, the days when a lie in could easily be the difference between eating that day and losing out to the early birds. Porthos spent too many days going hungry in the beginning and he vowed to himself he would never be in that situation again.

Today is no different. The sun is only just peeking above the horizon but Porthos is already fully dressed and sitting in the courtyard. He watches the stable boys preparing the horses – food, straw, water – and smiles. He thinks he's finally found contentment and he's at peace with the world.

He lets his eyes close and concentrates on the sounds around him. He hears the noise of the stable boys and the horses, the movements of the musketeers who, like him, seem to appreciate the beauty of the early morning and the rustling of the leaves swirling in the breeze.

The relative tranquility is shattered abruptly by Captain Treville's voice ricocheting around the yard.

"Porthos! Up here, now!"

Porthos bolts upright, automatically wondering what he's done wrong to incur the wrath of his leader. He takes the wooden stairs two at time and doesn't bother to knock on the Captain's door. He pushes it open and strides into the office.

He's only been in here a handful of times and then as a member of a scouting party reporting back. This time there is only him, the Captain and one other figure, a figure he recognises instantly – Aramis.

Aramis is standing in front of Treville's desk, hands folded together behind his back and his head bowed. Porthos wonders if he's praying or injured or just tired. Then he catches a glance of the look Treville is sending Aramis' way and is suddenly very grateful not to be in the other musketeer's boots.

"Porthos," Treville greets him and Porthos notes the way Aramis tenses and slowly raises his head so he is looking directly at their Captain.

Porthos spares a sideways glance at his comrade as he returns the greeting, puzzled and curious as to the reason behind his summoning.

Treville rummages through some papers on his desk and finally grasps a letter. He holds it out to Porthos who takes a hesitant step forward, wondering why Aramis, who is so much closer, has been seemingly frozen out. He takes the letter and looks at the address. It's the name of a Count but it's not someone whose name he's heard bandied around the garrison. He looks questioningly at the Captain.

"This letter needs to be delivered, in person, to M. Reveille in Rennes," Treville explains. "You are to see it it taken by his hand and his alone and wait for the reply. Do not leave Rennes without it, no matter how long it takes M. Reveille to compose it."

Porthos nods, it's a routine assignment and shouldn't take them more than ten days all in. He tucks the paper into his jacket and risks a look at Aramis.

"Just us?" he asks, looking back at their commander.

Treville sighs. "Yes," he replies before turning his attention to Aramis. "You will leave immediately. Jacques has prepared your horses and packs are waiting for you. Do not stop before you are outside of Paris. After that how you proceed is up to you. M. Reveille is expecting you by the end of the week."

Porthos does a quick calculation – today is Monday so that gives them four days, a leisurely ride.

"Aramis," Treville says, "do not stop _anywhere_ on your way out of Paris. Do I make myself understood?"

Porthos frowns, not just at the Captain's words but also the tone of voice he has used. Aramis, he notes, finally looks up but can't seem to quite meet Treville's eye as he replies, "I understand, Captain."

Treville stands and it's clear their meeting is over. Porthos turns and makes his way to the door. He is reaching for the handle when Treville gives one last order.

"Keep an eye on him, Porthos. There are more reputations than M. Reveille's at stake here."

TTM TTM TTM

They leave Paris in a timely fashion. Jacques has performed his duties well and there are horses and supplies sufficient for their journey to Rennes. Porthos has his weapons collected for him and he presumes Aramis has done the same as Jean-Pierre, a young lad from Beynes hoping to win favour from the Captain, hands him a selection of swords, pistols and muskets.

They ride in silence for the first couple of hours. Porthos tries to make conversation to start with but Aramis, it seems, is brooding – or sulking, Porthos can't decide which. The silence, however, is amiable enough and Porthos decides whatever is bothering his companion is not his concern.

Aramis breaks the silence sometime towards evening when the sun is starting to fall in the sky, drawn to the horizon to allow nighttime onto the stage.

"I'm sorry you got this assignment," he says. "It's a job for apprentices and children, not men of your caliber."

Porthos can't help the warm feeling in his gut – Aramis has just paid him a huge compliment, whether he meant to or not.

"What d'you mean?" he asks.

"Treville is angry at me, wants me out of Paris for a while where I can't bring the Musketeers into disrepute."

"How would you do that?" Porthos asks, although he has a feeling he already knows the answer to that one – Aramis, after all, has a reputation that precedes him.

Aramis has the grace to look sheepish as he turns his face away to the forest ahead of them. There's a long pause before he mutters a name – Yvonne.

"Yvonne?" the dark musketeer repeats and grins. "Was she worth it?"

It's a little presumptuous considering how vaguely he knows the man but Aramis seems to take it with good humour. He smiles a wicked smile and winks at Porthos.

"A musketeer never tells," he grins. "Suffice to say, Captain Treville wishes me out of Paris to save any embarrassment that might arise from my attachment to Mme. LaCroix. She is a lady of high station and her husband even more so. There may well be repercussions should her favour be found lying anywhere other than her husband's bed."

Porthos grins. Where he comes from there is no such dancing around relationships. If you play with another man's woman, death is certain to find you. It's just the way it was in the Court and he's still adjusting to the immorality that pervades the streets of Paris. One day, he muses, he'll become accustomed to it, but not just yet. Honour doesn't run deep in the Court, but there are some things that aren't meant to be messed with.

TTM TTM TTM

They travel on, passing the time of day with tales of the Court and, whatever Aramis may profess about discretion, tales of ladies met, dallied with and later abandoned. Porthos finds his candour refreshing and, if truth be told, highly amusing. His travelling companion turns out to be a charming and witty man and Porthos finds himself hoping the friendship lasts beyond this mission.

Trouble finds them three days into their journey, one day from Rennes.

They've set up camp in a small clearing. It seems a perfect location – rabbits are running and hopping in abundance and a stream offers the ideal spot to carry out their evening ablutions. Evening creeps upon them almost unnoticed and the sun's warmth is settling in the ground.

Porthos is building a small fire with the meager amount of kindling they have amassed while Aramis disappears to attend to his personal needs. It's a routine they have fallen into without the need to discuss it and it seems to be working for them. Porthos is content for the first time in a while.

So the cry from the stream strikes at his very core. Aramis hasn't struck him as the damsel in distress type so whatever has happened is something that requires his immediate attention. Pausing only to grab his sword and a pistol, Porthos leaves the camp without a second thought and thunders down to the stream.

Aramis is half naked in the water, his weapons laid out neatly on the bank. Porthos has to pause to take in the sight completely. His travelling companion is currently scrapping – and no, Porthos can't think of a better way to describe it – with a behemoth of a man, and losing. He's got his hands wrapped around the man's trunk of an arm which ends in a ginormous hand circling his throat while pushing the hapless musketeer under the water.

Porthos immediate raises his pistol and shouts at the man. His words have no impact though and Aramis disappears under the water again. There is no choice, Porthos argues with himself. Aramis is in dire straits and he is the only one there to help him. The shot from his pistol is straight and true, a direct him to the man's shoulder. For one heart-stopping moment, Porthos thinks the bullet has gone through the man and hit Aramis too.

But then the musketeer surfaces, spluttering and cursing, shoving his assailant off him and staggering to his feet in the cold water. He looks at Porthos, his eyes wide and a little too bright. He nods his thanks and bends down to grasp hold of the man who is starting to flail in the water.

Porthos strides into the stream, ignoring the flow of icy water soaking his breeches and holds a hand out to Aramis. His comrade takes the proffered help and Porthos diplomatically ignores the trembling, putting it down to long term exposure to the temperature in the water.

Together they drag the man to the bank where Porthos pulls a length of rope out of his jacket, swiftly securing his hands behind his back. The man is spluttering and swearing at them but neither musketeer takes any notice. They simply haul him back to where they have made camp, depositing him with very little ceremony, by their horses while they themselves make themselves comfortable by the now dwindling fire.

Porthos throws a blanket at Aramis before stirring the fire back to life, pretending not to be concerned about his fellow musketeer. He watches as Aramis wraps the blanket around his shoulders and shakes his head, spraying water from his hair as he does so.

"You alright?" he finally asks, watching Aramis eying their captive warily.

Aramis nods and turns his attention back to Porthos. "I was doing fine," he asserts although they can both see the lie in his words.

"Sure you were," Porthos huffs. "You were lucky I came along when I did."

Aramis has the grace to look sheepish as he glances at Porthos through a cover of limp, wet hair. "Thank you," he offers. "Maybe I wasn't as prepared for attack as I should have been."

Porthos laughs softly. "We're in the middle of nowhere, on a timewasting mission. You'd no reason to be on alert."

"Maybe," Aramis agrees, " but we're soldiers. I should have known better."

The conversation dies after that and Porthos watches in concern as Aramis seems to sink into a depression that he can't quite understand. He doesn't yet know the man well enough to pry and so he determines to simply keep watch tonight and let the man rest. The fire is blazing now and he has no concerns about Aramis' wellbeing following his unscheduled dip in the stream.

Silence reigns until the sun makes a reappearance in the sky. When Porthos opens his eyes, Aramis is already busy disbanding their camp; the fire is buried under fresh earth and the man they encountered last night is glaring at both of them in turn.

Aramis turns to Porthos with a bright grin and nods at their captive.

"Fancy a bet?" he asks, eyes twinkling with mischievousness.

Porthos is wary but he's a gambling man and his interest has been peaked.

"What d'you have in mind?" he asks.

Aramis grins. "A simple shooting contest," he says. "I bet you can't shoot a melon off this man's head."

"And you got a melon from where?" Porthos asks, although he has to admit he's tempted by the wager.

"Well," Aramis hesitates, "I don't have a melon per se, but I reckon your pack is about the same size."

"My pack?" Porthos exclaims. "Why mine? What's wrong with yours?"

"It's all part of the wager, my friend," Aramis retorts. "But if you're not up to it…"

Porthos shakes his head. He's done it before, he thinks, and there's nothing of any great value in his pack. They're only a day out of Rennes anyway and he can replace his pack when they get there.

"Okay," he agrees. "But what do I get when I win?"

"An introduction to the most accommodating ladies Paris."

TTM TTM TTM

It doesn't quite go to plan and when Aramis and Porthos arrive in Rennes, their captive is cursing up a blue streak. It takes some explaining to the local guard as to why he has a bullet graze on his temple and why his blood is stained on Aramis' gloves.

Porthos, it turns out, couldn't make the shot, despite what he believes and what he managed all those months ago.

But he will do it again, he determines. He _is_ that good and he _will_ prove it again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title** : Sobriety  
 **Author** : JenF  
 **Chapters** : 3 of 3  
 **Disclaimer** : I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

 **Athos: Don't worry. He's made this shot a hundred times.**

 **D'Artagnan: He's drunk.**

 **Athos: He's never made it sober.**

* * *

The trip to Rennes proves to be a turning point in Porthos' friendship with Aramis. Despite losing the bet, Aramis introduces Porthos to many accommodating ladies in Paris and for the next month or two they carouse their way round the bars and taverns of the most salubrious quarters, setting hearts aflutter with aplomb and, in one or two instances, breaking hearts after just one night.

Porthos doesn't always partake of the company on offer. Sometimes he prefers to watch his friend in action. He's not envious of Aramis' way with words although he does sometimes wonder where this skill comes from. From time to time he'll memorise words or phrases that Aramis comes out with but in his heart he knows he'll never use them.

Another, unexpected, outcome of the developing friendship is his introduction to Aramis' inner circle of friends – a circle that Porthos is surprised to find is remarkably small. There are few musketeers that the other man seems to confide in but there seems to be a connection between Aramis and Treville and, consequently, Treville's right hand man, Athos.

Porthos doesn't dwell on these relationships – he has enough on his hands dealing with his own issues within the ranks of the musketeers. He's not stupid enough to think he can slot in easily, his upbringing and current standing are a blatant hindrance to him. He's fought a long and hard battle to get where he is though and a few callous words and misjudged challenges barely register on his radar.

Weeks become months and before they know it, Christmas is upon them. Aramis turns his devotions from women to the Church and Porthos, being a man of no fixed beliefs, is happy to follow along with him. He finds a simple peace sitting beside Aramis while he offers up prayers and thanks to a God Porthos has yet to meet.

When Aramis expresses the desire to attend midnight mass, Porthos is happy to switch guard duty with him. He has no family to be with other than the musketeers and he doesn't begrudge Aramis one night of devotions.

He finds himself with Athos, another man who seems to have no family with whom to spend the holiday. He's a man of few words but the chill of the night air stifles any conversation Porthos would wish to have anyway. Their time standing watch over Paris speeds by and by the time they are finished churchgoers are passing by on their way home.

Athos grunts at Porthos and he briefly thinks it's his way of bidding farewell but when the older musketeer looks at him, it becomes apparent he's waiting for something. In his head, Porthos runs through the grunt again and finally puts it together as a mumbled invitation to the local tavern.

He's surprised but secretly pleased to be expanding his social horizons and together they head to The Gilded Swan, an establishment of low repute but one of only a few still open at this time on this particular night.

The warmth hits them as soon as they enter, stooping low through the doorway. The crowd inside is merry and, so far, amicable. Athos orders a flagon of wine and the pair find a dingy corner to sit in. The rumble of conversation around them fills their silence comfortably. Porthos doesn't feel the need to break the silence and neither, it would appear, does Athos.

They sit and drink and watch the crowd ebb and flow. The wine isn't the highest quality but they seem to be putting a fair amount away between them. Porthos wouldn't call it a competition as such but he's trying to keep up with Athos. He's doing his best but it's a losing battle.

When Athos finally breaks the silence, his voice is low and steady.

"What, exactly, do you and Aramis get up to at night?" he asks.

Porthos raises his eyebrows, though he doubts Athos can see. "We drink mostly," he replies, surprised at how tricky it is to get his words from his head to his mouth. "Aramis flirts outrageously, we play cards and fight."

"I heard you shoot objects off people's heads," Athos comments dryly.

Porthos smiles and nods. "I try. I miss usually."

"Then you need to try harder."

Porthos pauses to think about that. The wine is gone and Athos is staring at him. The challenge hangs unspoken in the air. He's trying to verbalise a response when a hand falls with heavy familiarity on his shoulder. He doesn't jump but it's only a lifetime of practice that prevents it. Sudden, unexpected contact was a way of life in the Court and Porthos is adept at handling it.

"What does my friend have to try harder at?" Aramis beams at them. Church has clearly agreed with him and his face looks, to Porthos at least, younger and more relaxed than it has for many months.

Athos slouches back in his seat and raises his wine to his lips, a smile playing round the edges of his mouth as he looks up at their companion.

"Porthos is considering his marksman abilities," he comments and Porthos wonders vaguely where this conversation is leading. Aramis grins and grabs the seat next to Porthos, facing Athos. He helps himself to the wine and raises a glass dramatically.

"I propose a toast," he announces and Porthos wonders how much communion wine he has imbibed this evening. "A toast to friendship, to loyalty and to faith in our brothers."

Athos raises his own goblet and nods in agreement. "I can drink to that," he agrees and looks at Porthos.

Porthos looks from Athos to Aramis and smiles. The warmth of the tavern and the warmth of companionship is settling around him like a woollen cloak. He mirrors Athos' action and sets his wine to his lips.

"I have faith in my companions," Aramis continues, a mischievous glint in his eye as he takes out his pistol and lays it on the table. "I believe either one of you could take this pistol and shoot a watermelon from my head."

He leans back and grins at both Athos and Porthos.

Athos sighs and glares at Aramis. Porthos wonders how often Aramis has laid down this bet and how often Athos has taken the bait. From the look on his face, Porthos thinks this is a conversation that has been had many, many times. It doesn't look like Athos is going to rise to the occasion but Porthos has had just enough to drink to have the confidence to pull it off and he leans forward, grasping the pistol with unsteady hands.

"I reckon I can do it," he asserts and grins at Athos who is currently rolling his eyes in resignation. "After all," he continues, "I've done it before."

"But you've also missed," Athos comments dryly. "Or had you conveniently forgotten that?"

"That's true," Aramis chips in. "I don't think our friend in Rennes is going to forget in a hurry."

But Porthos is full of the faith of the drunk. He's invincible and refuses to let his friends bring him down tonight. The wine will see him through.

"Then come and watch me," he retorts, standing upright and only just maintaining a semblance of balance by leaning heavily on the table. Athos merely raises an eyebrow as he hefts himself out of his seat.

 **TTMTTMTTM**

The alley behind the tavern is deserted save for a few homeless vagabonds and a discarded crate of rotting fruit. Aramis takes a watermelon from the top and weighs it carefully in his hand.

"This should do," he declares.

Porthos nods and waves a hand at him, motioning for him to move down the alleyway. Aramis finds a barrel to sit on and carefully places the watermelon on his head. Staring at Porthos, he smiles and closes his eyes.

"I have every faith in you, my friend."

Porthos stands steady and aims down the sight of the pistol. He blinks a few times and shakes a few flakes of snow off his eyelashes. He has the conviction of the inebriated that this is a task a four year old could easily accomplish.

Athos, apparently, does not share his conviction. "You are quite sure this is the way you wish to enter Christmastime?" he asks softly, eyes flickering between Porthos and Aramis.

Porthos doesn't stop to answer the question. Now he's got the fruit sighted, he doesn't have the time to question his abilities. He _knows_ he can do this.

The kickback from the pistol and accompanying smoke blurs Porthos' vision and it's several minutes before the ringing in his ears gives way enough for him to hear the delighted laughter of his friend and a grudging congratulations from Athos.

Aramis is running back up the alley towards them and he's shaking the wet, rotting flesh of the fruit from his hair with the wild abandon of a dog fresh out of the river.

"You did it, my friend!" he exclaims with a grin that threatens to split his face. "I knew you would do it!"

Porthos smiles and gives Athos a sideways look. "I think," he murmurs, "that this is exactly the way I wish to enter Christmastime."

 **TTMTTMTTM**

Porthos repeats this trick several times over the following year. He never actually kills anyone but sometimes his aim is a little off. Treville has words with him, and Aramis, but it doesn't deter either of them. Athos never voices any trepidation about their newfound hobby but he tends to disappear when the trick is mentioned.

It takes the pair a while to figure out a reason behind Porthos' successful attempts and those that don't quite go to plan. In fact, in the end it's Athos who gives them the biggest hint.

"I wouldn't do that just yet," he says one night. "I believe you need at least another three glasses of wine."


End file.
